


Just Know (i will be around)

by troubledpancakes



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn, Smut, season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubledpancakes/pseuds/troubledpancakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dropship breaks apart upon entering the Earth's atmosphere. Clarke and Bellamy are the only survivors from their piece of the ship. Together they must find their people, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Know (i will be around)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebigbadgrounder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebigbadgrounder/gifts).



> Carly asked for an AU where the dropship split apart, separating the kids. Everyone that was in the half that held Bellamy and Clarke died upon impact, leaving the two of them alone together trying to find the rest of the delinquents. I also combined it with inspiration from two anonymous prompts sent to BFF: ‘could you do season one canon universe smut, maybe they get trapped in a bunker or something’ + ‘we’re trapped somewhere and it’s the perfect time for resolving our sexual tensions, not necessarily smut’
> 
> BFF Giveaway Prize for Carly, bellblake/thebigbadgrounder

Through the smoky haze, Clarke makes out a dark figure. Coughing, she finally manages to unbuckle the harness around her. She falls forward, knees buckling as her feet finally hit the ground below.

“Hello?”

Her stomach churns when she sees a young boy, limbs twisted in an impossible manner. Tears prickle at her already red and swollen eyes, burning from the wreckage simmering in heat and exhaust.

“ _Octavia!_ ” A voice cuts through the dying hum of the dropship-- well, what’s left of the dropship.

“Hello?” Clarke calls back. She hears a loud screeching, like a metal door opening. “No, stop!” Stumbling over several more bodies, she finds herself in the vestibule of the ship. A broad looking male with dark hair and a too-small guard jacket stands with his back to her.

He glances over his shoulder, hand still firmly grasping the lever.

Clarke looks at him wide-eyed. “The air could be toxic.”

His hair is slicked back and he glances over his shoulder. “If it’s toxic, we’re all dead anyways, _Princess._ ”

Clarke cringes at the nickname. It’s not the first time she’s heard it, but that doesn’t lessen the sting. His focus returns to the lever and Clarke gnaws on her cheek. The door gives way with a calculated hiss and light fills the dropship vestibule.

He makes the first step onto the ground.

“Holy shit,”  he whispers.

Clarke remains frozen inside the ship, eyes adjusting to her surroundings.

The stranger takes off away from the ship in the direction of the forest.

“Hey-- wait,” Clarke calls out, hopping down into the dirt as she rushes to keep up.

He mostly ignores her, stuttering his steps every few seconds to look around as if trying to decide on a direction to take.

“Where are you going?” Clarke says, nearly out of breath.

“To find the other half of our ship,” he quips without even looking at her.

Clarke glances over her shoulder, assessing the state of the dropship. It was indeed broken, the upper level ripped from the main hub of the ship. She knows at least half of the delinquents were seated there, and she feels a tiny glimmer of hope bubble up in her stomach. _Maybe they weren’t the only survivors._

“There should be a map in the dropship....” Clarke trails off.

“Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she offers in return. “Bellamy, we need to figure out where we landed. The original ship trajectory was Mount Weather, a military bunker that was supposed to have enough supplies for three-hundred people to live for several years.”

Bellamy stops and lets out a sharp breath through flared nostrils. Slowly, he pivots where he stands to look at Clarke. “Oh is that so?”

Clarke frowns at him. “It’s where the Ark expects us to go, maybe the other half of the ship landed closer to trajectory and--”

“I don’t give a fuck what the Ark expects,” he grunts. His tongue darts out and wets his lips. “All I care about is finding my sister, then get as far away from the _Ark_ as possible.”

“Your… sister?” Clarke says slowly. “Oh.”

Bellamy watches the gears in Clarke’s head turn as she comes to the realization of who he was. Bellamy Blake, son of Aurora Blake, who was floated for illegally harboring a second child for sixteen years. Demoted from cadet to janitor for association.

“How did you get on the ship?” Clarke stares at him dumbly.

Bellamy clenches his jaw. “It’s not important. My sister, my responsibility. Now, if you don’t mind. I’d like to find her.”

Clarke licks her lips. “Let’s see if we can find the map.”

* * *

 

“What the _fuck_ Clarke?”

Bellamy comes storming back into the clearing where they’d made camp, closing in on Clarke eating a handful of nuts. Hovering over her, he snatches the small pouch of nuts and stuffs it in his pocket.

“Don’t you know anything about rationing?” he snarls.

Clarke blinks at him.

“You can’t just eat whenever you feel like, we have a limited amount of edible plants at our disposal right now.”

Pushing up to her feet, Clarke gets back in Bellamy’s face. He takes a step backwards as Clarke pokes her finger into his chest. “If you would talk to me with some fucking decency, I might answer that question.”

Bellamy’s jaw twitches.

“I _told_ you those reddish plants were okay to eat, along with the fruit growing on them.”

“I don’t trust them, the odor they give off is indicative of poison.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I promise you, as someone who aced Earth Skills, level four--”

Bellamy cuts her off with the rolling of his own eyes and a mocking tone. “ _As someone who aced Earth Skills, level four._ ”

Clarke shakes her head angrily, hand reaching for his pants. Before he can react, Clarke pulls the pouch from his pocket and opens it, hand diving into it eagerly.

“Don’t be a fucking prick, Bellamy,” Clarke says, mouth full of nuts. “I promise you, we have enough to eat in this forest.”

They remain toe-to-toe and Bellamy’s eyes _do not_ drop to her lips as she licks a crumb from the corner of her mouth. “Whatever,” he huffs. “We still have a few hours of daylight, we may as well keep moving now that the rain has stopped.”

“Right,” Clarke sighs, eyes _not_ dropping to his backside as he bends over to grab his pack. “Keep moving.”

* * *

“Were you going to tell me you had a fucking _gun_?” Clarke shouts as Bellamy returns from relieving himself behind a tree a ways ahead of them.

Bellamy watches Clarke as she dangles the gun out, one finger through the trigger guard. His pack is opened by her feet, and he furrows his brows.

“Why are you going through my pack?” he says angrily.

Clarke shifts her weight to her other foot. “Why do you have a gun?” she says again, pointedly.

He steps towards her. “ _Why_ are you going through my pack?” he counters.

Clarke huffs. “I was just looking for that apple I saw you stick in your bag yesterday.”

Bellamy cocks his head. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

Eyes dropping to the floor, Clarke lowers the gun to her side. “I don’t know.”

Bellamy lets out a small amused laugh. “You could have just asked.”

“Why do you have a gun, Bellamy?” she says, softer.

Bellamy tenses. “I did something, something to get me on the dropship.”

“Something they’d float you for,” Clarke finishes.

Bellamy nods.

She narrow her eyes. “That’s why you want to find your sister and get far away.”

“Those people, in the Ark. They aren’t my people.” Bellamy swallows. “They floated my mother. They locked my sister up, just for being _born_. As if just existing is a crime.”

Clarke listens intently as Bellamy talks.

“Octavia is my people-- _my person_ ,” Bellamy says quietly.

It falls silent between them. Until Clarke lifts the gun up slightly. “We’ve been on the ground for eight days, eating nuts and fruits when we could have been hunting.” She smiles with an air of amusement.

“There aren’t _that_ many bullets.”

“Still.” Clarke laughs. “Well, next time you feel the need to withhold major information-- don’t.”

Bellamy smiles. “Noted.”

* * *

It’s another four days before Bellamy comes up with the plan.

Clarke is lying on her side by the fire, hair falling in her face. Her wristband reflecting the flickering flames where it rests on her right hand.

A few days earlier, Clarke had mentioned that the wristbands transmitted their vital signs to the Ark. If the Ark thought that the ground was liveable, they would follow the dropship down to begin a life of the ground.

Bellamy didn’t want that. He didn’t want _those people_ to dictate the way he lived his life. They weren’t going to just forgive him for shooting the Chancellor. So many kids died on impact, maybe if all the wristband signals were disconnected, the Ark would believe the ground was unsafe. Then they’d be able to start a life of their own on Earth, away from the Council and the Law.

His boots pad softly against the soil as Bellamy sets himself in front of her. Crouching down, he tries to find the weakest spot on the wristband, a place where he could wrench it from her wrist. He sees it, and he takes a small tool he’d brought with him from the dropship and tries to wedge it into the seam.

Clarke lets out a deep sigh, shifting at Bellamy’s touch and he freezes. His eyes flit to her face: relaxed and warm in the glow of the fire, the mole above her lip that he might want to run his tongue across. _Fuck_.

He begins to pull away when Clarke stirs more aggressively and her eyes shoot open, Bellamy caught hovering over her with the metal tool and a guilty expression.

“What the hell?” she says groggily, trying to sit up. His pulse quickens. “Were you trying to take off my wristband?” Clarke looks at him in confusion.

“I--”

“Bellamy, what the hell?” Clarke cradles her arm against her stomach protectively.

Bellamy watches the hurt in her eyes.

“Do you want the people on the Ark to think we’re-- _I’m_ dead?” Clarke says, face now hardening.

“Clarke--”

“Bellamy, I get that you don’t trust them. I get that they did you wrong. But if they can’t come down to the ground, they are all going to _die_ up there. There’s not enough oxygen.” Clarke begins to get worked up. “I don’t care what the fuck you do. Do whatever the hell you want, but leave me out of it.”

Bellamy remains emotionless.

Clarke scrambles to her feet and gathers her pack. She kicks dirt onto the fire and slings the bag over her shoulder, trekking into the dark woods.

“Where are you going?” Bellamy struggles to grab the rest of his things, the hazy early morning light just now beginning to fill the sky.

“We’re going to find our people, and then you can get the fuck out of my life.” She says the words without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

* * *

Three days pass and Clarke doesn’t speak to Bellamy.

His stomach churns in a confusing, unfamiliar way. He thought he knew what he wanted-- what he wants. He wants to find Octavia, and he wants to keep her away from the people that have caused her pain. But, as he’s walking behind Clarke, her blonde hair swaying with each step, he’s not so sure that his heart and his head are on the same page.

Each passing day grows warmer and they find a small creek, just deep enough to wade into comfortably.

Bellamy gets back from gathering some nuts and berries to a sight.

Clarke has her back turned to him, her hair damp and dripping into a small puddle behind her. She’s tugging her pants up over her hips, and she is completely without a top. Bellamy gulps when she bends over to grab her bra and he has to tear his eyes away because the angle he’s watching from offers quite the view. Her soft curves and supple breasts. When he brings back his attention to her, she’s got her shirt on halfway over her head and he realizes he needs to move.

Pretending he didn’t just see what he definitely just saw, Bellamy marches back into the clearing and drops his pack. “I found a small patch of strawberries not too far from here, nice, plump, and ripe.” He blushes when he realizes his choice of words.

Clarke looks at him, wringing her hair out over her shoulder. “Okay.”

Well, it was one more word than she’d offered in the previous few days.

* * *

They decide to make camp for a few days, the sun beating down through the trees creating almost unbearable hiking conditions. Exhaustion had hit, and Bellamy is secretly grateful for a day of rest.

Bellamy manages to rig an animal trap, catching a rabbit for their dinner by the end of the day. Clarke sits watching the rabbit on the spit when Bellamy drops down next to her. She barely acknowledges his presence, until he starts to speak.

“When I was six years old, my mother handed me my baby sister. She was exhausted from giving birth, no drugs, no help. Do you know what she said to me?”

Clarke glances at him.

“Your sister, your responsibility,” Bellamy says, laughing darkly. “How fucked up is that?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow.

“Who tells a six year old that they are now responsible for the life of another human being?” Bellamy licks his lips. “When I was eight, I went a whole week barely eating anything because Octavia was sick. Poor toddler couldn’t keep any food down, so I gave up my rations to make sure that she was getting the nutrients she needed. When I was twelve, I would come home from my classes each day and sit with Octavia, trying to teach her to read. While all the other kids were watching movies and playing games, I was teaching a six year old how to read.”

When he doesn’t continue, Clarke says, “That’s a lot for a kid to handle.”

Bellamy smiles sadly. “I never had the chance to do things normal teenagers go to do. Anytime a girl got too close, she would want to come to my flat and hang out. Obviously she couldn’t do that. I eventually stopped trying to have a relationship with anyone.”

Clarke reaches out tentatively and places her hand over Bellamy’s.

“The Ark took away my childhood. It took a lot of my life.” Bellamy looks up at Clarke, who’s watching him closely. “I know it might be hard for you to understand why I’ve done the things I’ve done, or why I feel the way I feel.”

“I get it.”

Bellamy swallows thickly. “Yeah?”

“The Ark floated my father for wanting to tell the people that the Space Station was dying. My mother’s solution was to bring it to the council’s attention, and they charged him with treason. I may not love all the decisions the Ark has made, but whether we like it or not, we need them to survive.”

Bellamy ducks his head.

“There may be kids still alive out there, with parents and loved ones. We at least owe it to them to try and find them. Whatever it is that you did, whatever is eating you up inside-- if you need forgiveness. I’ll give it to you.”

Clarke bumps his shoulder. “But you have to promise me you’re not just going to do whatever the hell you want, not while it’s just you and me.”

He nods.

“I don’t think I could do this without you, okay?”

“Okay.”

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Bellamy mutters as he limps back to their campsite. He glances down as sees blood, sticky and dark, staining his pants. How could he be that stupid, trying to track a boar on his own?

Clarke knows something is wrong the moment he comes into view.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” she breathes, taking off in a sprint towards him. “What the hell happened?” She ducks under his arm, draping it over her shoulder to support him. He winces at the relief.

“I tried to track a boar, it decided it would rather attack than get tracked.”

“You idiot,” she says without heat. Leading him to his pallet, Clarke directs him to lay down. The gash in his leg isn’t too deep, but enough. She works meticulously with steely determination to clean the wound. She has a small needle and some thread left from the kit they took from the dropship and she manages a few small stitches to draw the gash closed.

He passes out at some point, and Clarke stays by his side. After retrieving a small bowl of water from the creek, she positions herself by his head, dipping a small rag into the cool liquid and dabbing it on his forehead.

Bellamy wakes up a few hours later to see Clarke dozing beside him, head propped in the palm of her hand. He reaches for her, and she startles awake.

“What, hey, are you okay?” Clarke chatters, eyes raking over his body to his wound.

Her hair is a frizzy, tangled mess and her eyes are red and puffy from exhaustion. Bellamy just grabs her hand, cradling it against his chest. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Clarke’s face splits into a smile, relaxing a bit. “I told you I can’t do this without you.”

“Right,” Bellamy says, he pulls her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. He scoots to the left a little, making a sliver of his pallet available and Clarke lays beside him, curling into his side. They fall asleep, letting the fire fade out as the night wears on.

* * *

“I told you, I’m ready to go,” Bellamy says with exasperation.

“It’s only been a few days,” Clarke says.

Bellamy smiles, bracing his hands on her shoulders in affirmation. “I had a good doc.” She frowns. “Really, Clarke, I’m _fine_. Besides, we’re close, right? Mount Weather can’t be that far.”

Clarke sighs, finally relenting. “Okay, but you tell me if it’s too much.”

He smirks and leans over to kiss her forehead. “I promise, if I’m in pain, I will tell you.”

She bites her lip, but they double check their campsite and continue on in the direction of Mount Weather. Their path takes them along a small tributary, and Clarke spots a bunch of seaweed she wants to collect.

They take a break from their hike to eat a little, let Clarke gather the seaweed, and allow Bellamy to take pressure off of his injured leg. Bellamy watches with amusement as Clarke wades through the water to collect the plant.

He doesn’t notice when the sky begins to turn orange, only realizing it when a large flock of bird whips through the open air, low to the ground.

“Clarke,” Bellamy calls out in warning.

Her head turns upward to the sky, and around the riverbend a large cloud of orange fog begins to descend upon them.

“We need to go, _now_ ,” he says, scrambling to his feet and throwing things into their packs. Clarke rushes from the water, grabbing her pack from Bellamy as he holds it out for her and they make a beeline for cover in the forest.

They almost don’t see it, but Clarke almost trips over the hatch as the run through the woods.

“Bellamy!” she calls to him, just a few feet in front of her. He spins around, crouching down to help her with the lever. They drop into the darkness, pulling the hatch closed behind them.

“What was that?” Clarke whispers.

“Why are you whispering?”

She almost laughs. “I don’t know.”

Bellamy has a few matches left in their survival kit, and he fumbles around until he is able to light it. Immediately to his right he sees a wall lined with shelves, a small lantern resting atop the top shelf. Reaching up, he prays there is enough kerosene. It sparks quickly, filling the small room with a hazy orange glow.

It’s a bunker of some sort, a table and chairs, a small couch. There’s even some expired cans of beans left in the cupboard along the far wall.

It’s dank and musty, obviously untouched in a hundred years.

Bellamy sets the lantern on the table and turns to Clarke. She has her arms wrapped around herself, shivering.

“Shit, your clothes are still wet.”

Clarke shrugs.

“I have another shirt in my bag.”

She nods, and Bellamy drops his pack on the table beside the lantern, rifling through it to find the dry shirt. Once he procures it, he holds it out for Clarke, who takes it hesitantly.

“I’ll-- um,” Bellamy stutters, twirling around like an idiot to face the other wall.

The silence is almost painful as Bellamy listens to the ruffling of clothes. She indicates that she’s finished by clearing her throat and he almost doesn’t want to turn around. Almost.

Clarke stands in the middle of the bunker in just his t-shirt, slightly oversized, but not _that_ oversized. It barely covers her underwear, just brushing the tops of her thighs. Her creamy, lean legs going on for days.

She blushes as Bellamy’s eyes roam her body.

“Clarke--”

She cuts him off. “Maybe I should check your stitches.”

He nods, swallowing.

The sound of their breathing is much, much too loud.

Bellamy takes a step forward hesitantly, afraid to spook her. Her eyelids flutter nervously the closer he gets. She motions to the couch. “I, um, it might be easier if you took your pants off.”

He blinks dumbly, then blindly fumbles with his belt. His pants fall to his ankles and he toes off his boots, stepping out of the falling article of clothing and towards Clarke.

She brings her hands up to his chest and pushes on it lightly, forcing him to sit on the couch. Kneeling between his legs, her fingers brush over the wound, stitched up nice and clinically. Bellamy balls his fists at his side, leaning as far back into the couch as he can.

“They look good, you’ve been keeping them clean.”

Bellamy nods timidly.

Clarke rises up on her knees, still positioned between his legs. Bracing her hands on either side of his thighs, she pushes onto her feet, hovering over Bellamy, sitting lamely on the couch watching her.

His shirt slides of her shoulder slightly, and her crouching position causes her backside to be uncovered by the t-shirt.

Their eyes lock in a heated gaze, and Clarke licks her lips before climbing into his lap, both knees settling against his thighs. Bellamy’s hand instinctively fly to her hips, steadying her.

Everything moves at a painfully slow pace, until Clarke drops her ass, rolling her hips against him.

“Clarke,” Bellamy warns, tipping his head back against the couch.

She looks at him, eyes earnest and adoring. “Do you want--”

“Yes,” he cuts her off, surging forward to capture her lips. The whimper that escapes her lips sends electricity through him, and he slips his hands beneath the t-shirt, running up her sides. He reaches her breasts and _fuck_ she had taken the bra off already, his calloused hands knead the flesh, thumbs flicking at her nipples.

“ _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke rasps, grinding down where he’s already half-hard.

He makes an attempt to roll Clarke under him but winces, bumping his injured thigh against the edge of the couch. Clarke stops him, gets up from the couch, pulls his shirt over her head and says, “You lay down.”

Bellamy doesn’t even question it, just removes his own shirt and lays back on the couch longways. Clarke climbs back on top and brackets her legs on either side of him. She bends down and kisses him long and dirty, hot and wet. Bellamy digs his fingers into her ass, encouraging her to rock down against him.

“You’re sure?” he murmurs between kisses.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she keens when his hand slips under the waistband of her panties. “Yes, Bellamy, I am sure.”

He shoves down his underwear enough to free himself, pushing aside hers as they come together with a sigh. Their shadows play on the wall as they dissolve into one another.

* * *

They get each other off again in the morning before daring to return to the ground.

Mount Weather isn’t far now, and Clarke feels excitement bubble up inside of her the closer they get. Clarke sees it, a large metal bunker-- if you could call it that, built into the side of a mountain. It lies just across a riverbed and Clarke looks over at her shoulder, catching Bellamy smiling as he watches her.

Her heart flutters a little, but she tries to stay focused, spotting a long vine just above them.

“We could swing across!” she says, climbing up on the boulder.

“After you, Princess,” he says, there’s no heat behind the nickname this time.

Clarke positions herself on the vine, preparing to swing when a voice calls out to them.

“Wait!”

Clarke whips around, Bellamy already looking at the forest as a girl emerges.

She’s got tight little braids on each side of her head, and she has the same olive skin and buttchin that Bellamy has. Clarke’s stomach rolls.

“Octavia?” Bellamy croaks.

“Bell?” The girl’s stance relaxes and she runs at Bellamy, throwing herself into his arms. Clarke feels a wave of emotion roll through her. If Octavia was here, did that mean the others were close. And _oh my god, Octavia is here_.

Suddenly her mind races with a million different thoughts. Will Bellamy take off with her? What does this mean? What about the last few weeks?

“Octavia, this is Clarke,” he says, motioning to Clarke. Clarke snaps her attention to the siblings and steps forward.

Octavia smiles at her. “I never thought I’d see my brother again. I hear you’re to thank for this dumbass not getting killed.”

Clarke shrugs. “I didn’t do anything I wouldn’t do for anyone else.”

Bellamy tenses.

“But, I couldn’t do it without him,” Clarke clarifies, stealing a glance at Bellamy. “He knows that.”

Octavia stands, watching in amusement as Bellamy and Clarke make eyes at each other.

“I can take you to our camp,” Octavia finally says.

“Lead the way, baby sister.”

* * *

The camp was unlike anything she expected. Clarke wanders through the gated community, tents and tables, and a kitchen. She’d been given free reign to whatever she needed. A young boy named Monty set her up with a tent, and a sweet girl named Fox made sure she got a meal in her belly.

After a few hours in camp, Clarke starts to miss Bellamy.

He’s still there, but he’s been with Octavia all day, justifiably. But that doesn’t stop her from missing him. For weeks it’s just been the two of them.

She lays awake on her pallet, and it’s too big and too empty.

It feels like hours that she tosses and turns until she hears something rustle at the entrance of her tent. Bellamy steps through the threshold, and Clarke watches him from the bed. He toes off his boots, shrugs off his jacket, unbuckles his belt and pulls off his pants. A minute later, he slides into the bed behind Clarke, wrapping a warm arm around her stomach and pulling her back against his chest.

Clarke suddenly relaxes, melting back against him as he nuzzles his face into the crook of her neck.

“I thought you were going to take Octavia and get the hell out of here,” Clarke admits softly.

Bellamy lets out a small puff of air against her skin. “Turns out Octavia has other plans. I knew she was a strong, smart kid--”

“You raised her,” Clarke reminds him.

Clarke feels his lips smile into her hair. “Aye. But anyways, maybe I changed my mind. Maybe Octavia’s not my only people anymore.”

“Oh?” Clarke turns in his arms so she can look at him, and Bellamy runs his fingers up her back.

Bellamy looks at her, his eyes warm and loving. “Maybe you’re my people, too.”

Clarke can’t keep herself from smiling. “I _am_ your people.”

She kisses him, and it feels like coming home.


End file.
